


Yes I Do You're My Cat

by NewtTaylor (gentlemanofquality)



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh the Abridged Series
Genre: Bedsharing, Domestic, Gen, M/M, alcohol //, arts n crafts, as in jokes from five years ago, bakura is a kitty, bakura loves to feel pain, cat jokes, five year old jokes, marik is a shiny ticklish cat toy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:00:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlemanofquality/pseuds/NewtTaylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary (retained from 2011 btw): Yami Bakura’s hair isn’t the only thing that makes him a Fluffy Kitty!</p><p>embarassing cat joke based fic. bakura wont leave marik alone.</p><p>(marik voice AH BUT WERE FRIENDS OUO)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes I Do You're My Cat

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2011 and have kept it for years, fixing it up and generally wanting to post it but not feeling into ygotas enough to do so. Well you know what? I love yugioh and i love ygotas and Im trash and I DONT care.
> 
> The best part of this is that bakura and marik living together and bickering was FANON in 2011. based completely on. mine and jewel's cosplays/rps? and its now ygotas au CANON??? thank u god and littlekuriboh......... thank u.

It was a pleasantly cool and quiet evening. Marik was designing some evil plans for his next Evil Council meeting (meaning lying belly-down on the cold floor with his feet in the air, biting his lip and furiously coloring reams of poster board with crayon and washable marker). But where was Yami Bakura this fine night? Was he out on the town, plundering and pillaging mercilessly? Perhaps he had found a partner to join him in playing a children’s card game! No, the young man with the unbelievably buoyant hair and the strange glowing necklace was in the house (such as it was) and was busy bothering Marik.

“Bakura, what are you doing?”

Bakura absentmindedly rolled a ball of blue yarn over a poster, and crawled on hands and knees to retrieve it. “None of your sodding business, Marik.” His gaze was caught by another ball of yarn (Marik must have found a big box of crafting supplies and just upended it into the middle of the room) and he rolled over to bat it too, still scowling. Despite the fact that this was objectively one of the cutest things ever seen on the whole card-game-playing planet, Marik just sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Calm down, Bakura!” Marik sat up and pulled his legs out in front of him so he was sitting cross-legged.   “Jeez, I knew you were fluffy, but you’re really a kitty, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bakura underhanded the yarn at Marik’s head. It bounced off and began unraveling over an enthusiastically scribbled-upon poster. Bakura languidly crawled over onto the poster and reached for the loose tail. Marik grabbed the mass of fibers, hoping to deter Bakura from his distracting conduct. However, this just made matters worse: Bakura, glaring at Marik for spoiling his fun, spotted the glinting gold chains dangling from the front of his shirt.

Bakura reached out and batted the topmost chain, eyes riveted on the swaying gold, the glitter reflecting in his wide brown irises. His pupils grew larger as he focused on the movement. He shifted his weight onto his left hand, using the other to tug on the middle chain.

“Bakura, what the frig are you doing? Stop that! I’m trying to work.”

When Marik made an effort to push the white-haired man away, Bakura narrowed his eyes and curled his lip.

“No.” He grabbed Marik’s wrist and shoved his arm aside. “I’m busy.”

“No you’re not, you’re just- gah! What the frig?”

Bakura had climbed up into Marik’s lap, using the Egyptian’s crossed ankles to support his back and placing his own legs on either side of his partner in crime’s waist. He then started playing with the chains intently, batting at them to see how the light bounced off and how they clinked when they hit each other.

Marik furrowed his eyebrows, not used to Bakura instigating any type of closeness. It remained a slightly uncomfortable experience because, well, Bakura did not like touching. “Touchy-feely” was a term that, when thought of, did not exactly evoke Bakura’s image. Nor was “friendly guy”. Or “cuddly customer”.

“Bakura, you’re in my way. Get off!”

Bakura peered up at Marik’s irritated visage from between his hunched shoulders and growled. “No.”

Marik flinched at Bakura’s fierce gaze, turning his face away. His earring rested on the tight muscle in his neck, catching the light. Bakura grinned malevolently and tugged on it. Marik winced.

“Oh, does that hurt? I’m so very sorry.” Bakura, obviously not sorry at all, continued to tug on the golden accessory sharply, risking Marik serious injury. Well, injury, anyway. Minor pain at most, but still.

Marik pouted. “It frigging does hurt, you- you jerk! Off!” He tried to push Bakura away, kicking his skinny legs to throw the other young man off him. Bakura, whose body may have been that of a weak Japanese schoolboy but whose soul was fortified by millennia of wicked plotting and a fragment of an ancient evil entity, remained seated. In fact, he grew even closer to Marik, inspecting the gold items hanging from his earlobes. They were a curious diamond shape, three-dimensional. A true master goldsmith must have made them for them to be so sharply cornered and perfect. Bakura appreciated artistry when he saw it, as well as anything shiny that happened to dangle in front of him.

He extended his spine so he could nudge the earring with his cheek and send it swinging, pressing his chest against Marik’s leanly muscled torso in the process.

Marik’s face was suddenly engulfed in a forest of unexplainably white hair. The soft strands tickled his nose, obscured his vision, and, worst of all, got into his widely opened mouth that had been about to issue forth an edict to force Bakura to get off, now. Marik almost choked on his sudden mouthful of keratinized dead cells, and his mind was seized by a sudden worry: Bakura didn’t shed, did he? If he did, things were going to get pretty damn hairy around their shared quarters. Pardon the amazing pun, by the way.

As Bakura’s face got uncomfortably familiar with Marik’s choice of jewelry, Marik spat and coughed until he was able to protest: “Get your furry mop out of my face! Honestly, it’s like a rat’s nest in there!”

“Shut up about my hair, you bloody hypocrite,” Bakura growled, and bit Marik on the side of his earlobe, right next to the tender (though long-healed) wound he had until recently been abusing.

Marik jumped in surprise and pain. “Get those damn-” Bakura bit harder, turning what could have been treated as a playful gesture (had he actually been a cat) into what could only be described as an attack- “razor sharp- ow- demonic teeth away from me! Gaah!” With almighty effort, Marik shoved Bakura off him and stood up, brushing down his front in fear of stray Kitty hairs attaching themselves to his top.

Bakura, always haughty, just stared at Marik’s abandoned posters with a bored look, seemingly thinking ‘I meant to do that. It was all part of my evil plan to kill Marik in his sleep and take his Millennium Item.’ He wasn’t outwardly fazed by Marik’s swift defensive maneuvers at all.

Marik, on the other hand, was covering his injured ear with one hand and had the other on his hip tersely. “Wh-what was that, Bakura?”

He was ignored.

“Bakura!”

Looking up, as if he had forgotten Marik was still in the room, Bakura rolled his eyes and let out a dry laugh. “I was just practicing. What, was I bothering you?” He smirked.

“Practicing?” Marik yelped. “You frigging bit me! Jeez, I’m not a friggin’ chew toy, Bakura! Get some self control!” He calmed down slightly, folding his arms and scowling. “What were you ‘practicing’, anyway?”

Bakura rolled onto his back and smirked some more. “Menacing my victims.”

The sheer absurdity of this excuse was enough to tire Marik out. “Ugh, whatever. I’m going to bed.”

He stormed off to his bedroom, and Bakura returned his attention to the yarn surrounding him.

///

It was the next day and things appeared to have returned to normal. Marik was chowing down on a bowl of muesli and applying a layer of kohl around his eyes (purely habit now that he lived in Japan full-time, but hey, he looked fantastic so no downsides), a feat which took some excellent dexterity and hand-eye coordination. Once upon a time, in his younger days, Marik would have found himself with smoky lips and an eye full of cereal, but he was professional enough now that he could do it perfectly and have conversations with his flatmate. He was a proper villain, dammit!

“Have any plans for today?” he asked conversationally, wiping some muesli off his eyebrow.

Bakura peered at him suspiciously over the top of his newspaper (and hadn’t The News of the World been discontinued after a massive hacking scandal several years ago? Why was Bakura still getting it?). “Not really, no. Why do you ask?”

Marik shrugged, scowling. “What, do I need a reason to ask you what you’re doing? Don’t be so inquisitive, Bakura! It’s not an attractive quality!”

Bakura chuckled, smirking into his tea. “Calm down, Marik. Don’t get so excited. I won’t ask.”

“Good,” Marik replied, though he didn’t like the subtle insult that lurked behind Bakura’s smug expression. He set down his makeup and crossed his legs, tapping his spoon on the rim of his cereal bowl.

There was a silence interrupted only by Bakura’s occasional sips of English Breakfast and the rustle of his paper.

Marik coughed to get Bakura’s attention again. “Are you… are you feeling any better?” This blatant display of human decency was very embarrassing for him, and he knew that Bakura knew it. The other villain was faintly glowing with suppressed amusement.

“Feeling better?” the thief-y guy asked innocently, pouring himself more tea and not bothering to blow on it before he tipped the cup and let the undiluted liquid scald his tongue, his palate, and his esophagus. That burning, painful feeling never failed to wake him up in the mornings, and it was a comforting routine. A normal man would have perhaps fallen into a coma with the kind of pain Bakura subjected himself to on a daily basis, but, as previously discussed, Bakura was not a normal man. “What do you mean?”

Marik tried not to stare at the steam emanating from Bakura’s mouth. “Well… you know… after last night… I was wondering whether you were still fit to make evil plans with me. You know, more felon than feline?”

“Last night?” Bakura raised his eyebrows.

Marik squinted at him, wondering if he was being pisstook, as it were. “You know, when you decided to get all Tokyo Mew Mew on me then started using me as a jungle gym!” He folded his arms obstinately. Bakura did not appear to understand what he was talking about, if his flat stare and lowered eyebrows were any indication. Marik floundered, unsure of what to say. “I- I mean, I know that I’m pretty much irresistible, but you could think of a better excuse to say you want this than ‘I want to play with your jewelry! Jeez!” His diatribe petered out as he realized that his argument wasn’t exactly persuasive… or even articulate.

Bakura let out an exasperated sigh. “Marik. I don’t ‘want this’. I want revenge on my enemies, world domination, and my own personal line of hair care product. That’s it. What I don’t want is some bloody useless poor-excuse-for-a-villain accusing me of being a Japanese cartoon character.  What goes on in your overactive imagination has nothing to do with me.”

“O-oh please!” Marik spluttered. “I did not imagine what you did! I’ve got the bruises to prove it!”

Bakura set down his teacup and folded his paper in half with a snap. “I’m going out. I don’t want to hear any more of your drivel.” He stood up and left the room. A moment later, the front door slammed.

Marik sighed, slumping over the table. ‘What a bitch’. He resolved never to talk to Bakura again to avoid any more disastrous conversations like this one. Then he realized that then the only person around that he could use to bounce evil ideas off of was Odion, and that would only end in tears.

///

Bakura came home later pleasantly buzzed and pleasantly drenched in the blood of several unsuspecting victims. Yes, he had indulged himself that day, but it had been a long time coming. Cohabitating with Marik Ishtar wasn’t exactly beneficial to one’s health. He was constantly at a loss to explain why the other man insisted on turning everything he did into an elaborate plan to get into Marik’s pants. So Bakura had his eccentricities; that didn’t mean that he didn’t have standards.

The house was dark. Bakura wondered if Marik had felt the need to blow off some steam too. Then he heard the hiss of the shower and realized he was probably getting steamed up. He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, craving some meat.

“Sirloin. Just what the doctor ordered,” Without bothering to heat or otherwise prepare his meal, Bakura set into the myoglobin-dripping muscle straight out of the tupperware, ripping pieces off and swallowing them whole.  “Delicious,” he muttered, licking the red liquid from his lips and chin. When he had devoured the meat fully, he found a dishtowel and fastidiously cleaned his face and hands.

Bored now, he wandered into the sitting room and turned on the television, snuggling up on the couch under a quilt that had already seen its fair share of bloodstains and so was not really affected by the splatters of crimson still damp on Bakura’s person.

His brain fuzzy with alcohol, fading bloodlust, and protein-induced contentment, he found himself watching some ghastly children’s movie with little to no annoyance. Onscreen, the princess was

having a romantic moment with her prince. Bakura laughed, throwing his head back onto the armrest of the sofa. He had been weary for far too long. He let himself succumb to the overwhelming desire just to sleep.

He didn’t know what time it was when he heard the short intake of breath from the doorway. It pulled him out of the stupor into which he had pushed himself. Blinking, bleary-eyed, he glanced toward the sound.

Marik was staring at him, wide-eyed, confused. His hair was wet, and the hood of his shirt was askew, as if he had just put it on. He seemed shocked to see Bakura in such a vulnerable state- a condition very rare for the evil, villainous, and overall quite-able-to-take-care-of-himself hardened criminal.

Bakura shook his head, not wanting to be bothered by whiny gay boys at the moment. “I was sleeping, Marik. Now get out before I disembowel you.”

Marik looked around the room, taking in the bloodstains, the stench of drink, and what was by now The Little Mermaid muted on the TV. “Wow, Bakura. What wild shenanigans did you get up to today, and why didn’t you invite me along? I’m a blast at parties, you know that! And you know, if you want girls at your party, invite Marik Ishtar because he is sexy and girls will come to look at him.”

The babbling was almost soothing. “It’s because of you that I went to all this trouble to get completely wasted,” Bakura muttered, already losing his grip on complete consciousness. “You’re the most irritating partner… ever…”

Bakura’s eyes closed, so he couldn’t see what the other man did next, but soon he didn’t have to see to know. Marik shoved him over, reclaiming his usual spot next to the armrest. Bakura did not feel much like adjusting his position, so he just leaned on Marik, forcing him to angle his body slightly to the side to accommodate.

Bakura was barely awake. The rhythm of Marik’s heartbeat and slow breathing were very relaxing. Bakura liked hearing these noises, they made people seem much more fragile and human. Not to mention the fact that Marik was warm, very warm, and smelled like shampoo. Bakura’s shampoo, actually. Between him and the quilt, Bakura felt like he was burning up. It reminded him of his tea, and this thought made his lips curl up at the corners.

///

Marik was starting to wonder why he had ever thought this would be a good idea. He was essentially cuddling Bakura, legs half-on, half-off the sofa, and Bakura had his head on his chest and his arm idly brushing his midriff and he was smiling! What the hell? And now Marik’s arm was moving to Bakura’s head (of its own accord, surely!) and he was shifting to allow Bakura to lie on him more comfortably.

Marik, shocked at his own actions, started petting Bakura’s hair. He ran his fingers through the strands and curled the ends around his fingertips, remembering the previous night and the feel of Bakura’s hair trying to suffocate him. He wanted to talk, to say anything to distract himself, but the unexpected peace of the moment stopped him.

“The most… irritating…” Bakura murmured again, rubbing his head against Marik’s collarbone sleepily. Marik jumped, his hand stilling.

“Thanks a lot,” he whined sarcastically.

Bakura yawned, his teeth glinting. “Don’t stop, you wanker…”

Marik, more confused than ever, started to stroke Bakura’s hair once more. Bakura made a few appreciative noises, which Marik was not proud to have caused, and settled down, his breathing even.

And just when Marik thought this day couldn’t get any weirder, Bakura started purring. Actually purring. His left leg twitched slightly, pushing his body closer to Marik. In this near-unconscious state, he looked more approachable, even if the energy of his Millennium Item still electrified his hair and drew his eyebrows and mouth downwards. It was unsettling. Bakura looked content, like he had accomplished his three major life goals and bagged a great girlfriend- or boyfriend, actually; after all, not everyone could be as heterosexual as Marik Ishtar- in the process. This thought upset Marik a little. He stopped his lazy exploration of Bakura’s scalp, letting his hand drop to the other young man’s shoulder as he realized exactly why.

He didn’t want Bakura to leave him.

This was a bit of a shock because Marik never got attached, not even to his own family. Hell, he had killed his own father! Admittedly, he had been under the control of his evil alternate personality at the time, but even that was really his dad’s fault anyway. Somehow Bakura had become part of his life, as close to him as his Millennium Rod, or maybe his favorite conditioner. He just couldn’t imagine life without him.

Bakura fidgeted, sensing that the pleasant sensation around his temples had gone. He stopped purring and dug his fingernails into Marik’s thigh to remind him of his duty. Marik made a noise of protest, but Bakura just tightened his grip, luckily stopped from drawing blood by the thick fabric of Marik’s black cargoes. It still hurt like frig, though.

Sighing and resigning himself to the awkward experience, Marik absently trailed his fingers through Bakura’s long locks, occasionally stroking his neck or behind his ears. Like any good Fluffy Kitty, Bakura began purring again, even louder than before.

“Like a friggin’ chainsaw…” Marik whispered, more to himself than anything.

Bakura appeared to have heard anyway. “Mm… I like chainsaws….”

The atmosphere of the room grew more and more relaxed, the setting sun filtering through the sloppily drawn curtains and slowly turning from gold, to red, to purple. The television continued to flash brightly coloured images at them, but the pair had by now closed their eyes and fallen asleep, warm and comfortable, Bakura’s head turned in towards Marik’s body and Marik’s hand tangled in Bakura’s hair.

///

A motorcycle passed the flat, squealing, revving its engines, and generally making enough noise to wake the dead. Bakura jolted awake first, wondering why he wasn’t in his own bedroom, in his own bed. Alone. He hadn’t had this experience since his… lively college days. He felt a rush of nostalgia for a second, considering phoning Jack Slenderman, but then it passed and he realized that he really hated that guy anyway.

He sat up, letting Marik’s various limbs fall in various directions. He felt suddenly bereft of their warmth, but steeled himself against such weakness. Marik stirred, but did not wake.

Bakura, always sensible in questionable circumstances, switched off the television (now playing Sleeping Beauty), checked the time on the wall clock (9:34 PM), and then realized that he smelled like a back alley in the worst way. He would shower, and then go to bed. Marik could sort himself out.

Yet he stopped before he left the room, and turned back.

Marik was sleeping, in a more spine-friendly position now that Bakura had left him, legs entirely on the couch and one arm dangling off the side, fingers almost brushing the floor. His hair had dried messy and tangled, drawn back from his face by gravity. He wore no distractingly sparkling jewelry. He hadn’t reapplied his makeup after his afternoon shower either. He was almost unrecognizable without his usual adornments. Bakura smiled fondly- his fondness being a derivative of irritation, of course. For someone who claimed to be a lone wolf (or a lone something, at least. Marik’s animal impressions had never been stellar when he was sober, let alone after an “all night five card brag-n-drink-athon”), Marik was unabashedly high-maintenance.

Unable to stop himself, Bakura went back to the sofa and pulled the old bloody quilt over Marik’s body. ‘Shouldn’t show so much skin. He’ll catch cold.’

He left to take a shower.

Later that night, Marik woke up to a lingering warmth and darkness. He didn’t bother wondering where Bakura was. Instead, he just got up and went to bed.

///

Marik buttoned up the top button of his purple-and-white pinstriped pyjamas and paused before entering his bed. Having his own apartment (won in a card game, of course) meant he had the benefit of being able to choose his own mattresses, and this one was soft and made of some type of magical material that made him feel like a princess. His sheets were silk, and he had lots of cuddly blankets in many classically evil colours (red, black, purple, champagne, lavender, etc). It was a joy to sleep in, and an even greater joy to jump into immediately before sleeping.

Marik did his customary before-bed stretch and gleefully hopped under his covers. His legs were squirming around to search for the warmest spot within the blankets when he felt something that did not feel like cloth. It felt like… flesh?

Marik, eyes wide with apprehension and visions of decapitated ponies and misplaced limbs dancing through his imagination, lifted his sheet slightly and peered into the gloom underneath. There were his feet, poking out of his pyjama trousers, and right next to them... A slightly reflective white mass, then dark blue with flashes of pale rose. The thing moved, its central part rising and falling slowly.

Bakura- friggng Bakura! - was sleeping, curled up, under the covers at the foot of his bed!

This was the last straw. While Marik saw nothing wrong with sharing a bed with someone, especially if you had been watching a Lord of the Rings movie marathon in there for the whole evening or if there was a thunderstorm or maybe if you had gone through a particularly trying ordeal that day (evil or otherwise; for example, that waitress at the Olive Garden the other week had been really mean and Marik had just felt too tender to sleep alone), this was more than just friendly, it was downright creepy. One didn’t sleep in someone’s bed without their consent! That was extremely disreputable!

Even after the negative effects of previous confrontation, Marik could not let such inexplicable behavior remain unexplained. He sat up and yanked the blankets off the foot of his bed, forcing Bakura into wakefulness. The other man hissed and shivered at the sudden draft.

“Bakura! Wake up! What are you doing? I didn’t say you could sleep in here tonight!”

Bakura drew himself up into the criss-cross-applesauce position, slouching, with his hands on his knees. His fluffy hair drooped with fatigue. “Marik, please. I’m trying to rest.” He blinked his big brown eyes sleepily. Marik found himself feeling guilty.

“Oh- sorry- I-” The evil glint in Bakura’s sleepy irises reminded Marik of why he had disturbed the other’s slumber for the second time that evening. “No! No, you’re going to explain yourself, young man! Those big kitten eyes aren’t going to work on me.”

Bakura rolled his eyes and yawned simultaneously. “If it really means that much to you, I will explain. I was sleeping, Marik. Do you understand? Sleeping. I’m sorry you appear to have forgotten how human beings replenish their energy.”

“Well…” Marik frowned, suspecting he was being mocked, as per usual. “Don’t do it again!”

Bakura gave his flatmate a Look. He seemed to have given in, however, and did not lie back down. Then again, he didn’t move out of the bed either. Marik decided to risk it and positioned himself flat on his dorsal side, spreading his bedclothes over his body all the way to his toes and fidgeting to try to get cozy. He was just pointedly closing his eyes (for Bakura still had not left the bed) when the other man spoke again. “You’re going back to sleep, then?”

Marik nodded, eyes still screwed shut. “Obviously, Bakura. And it would do you some good to get some rest; you’re always looking so… pasty.”

Bakura did not move, but did respond verbally. “This is how I always look.”

Marik peeked out with one eye to see Bakura leaning over his crossed legs, staring intently at him. Bakura’s eyes were narrowed with concentration, making him look like he was trying to figure out a difficult problem. Marik opened both eyes and sat up on his elbows. “Why are you always so… weird?”

Bakura unfolded his legs and crawled over across the bed, stopping about two feet away from Marik to pull the covers over his chilly toes. And legs. And everything. He was cold, clearly.  “Don’t hog the bedclothes, Marik.”

“You’re the hog here, Kitty!” Ignoring his mixed animal metaphor, Marik pulled the blankets over to his side of the bed. Bakura pulled them back. A squabble soon arose, with several minutes going by where both young men just tried to fight the other’s hands off various sheets. Marik shoved Bakura away, grabbing as many edges as he could and pulling them over himself. He snapped: “This is my bed; I’ll decide who gets to be warm in it!”

Bakura growled. “Marik. Be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable! I’m cold!”

“Well so am I!”

They had, it seemed, reached an impasse.

Marik felt those nagging guilty tugs in the pit of his stomach. Bakura didn’t seem to be leaving, and it was quite cool in this room without the warming effects of insulation. Bakura was facing him, leaning on one elbow and lips curled in annoyance. Marik frowned, not liking this conscience thing. As a villain, wasn’t he supposed to try to eradicate those feelings of basic humanity? But he still wanted Bakura to be comfortable. Surely, the other man would do the same for him. Making sure he scowled and grumbled enough to make it very clear that he wasn’t being nice, he was just taking pity on a poor shivering kitty, Marik offered one end of his lavender duvet to Bakura.

Bakura took the proffered corner and, perhaps sensing that abusing Marik’s sense of charity was a bad idea (after all, it wasn’t like he really paid rent on their apartment – well really nobody seemed to pay rent at all but the point stood), he simply crawled under it as best he could, ending up curled up a few inches away from Marik’s side, sufficiently covered with warm fabric. They were much closer than they had been before Marik’s “kindly” move, but not touching. The warmth of two people under the covers as opposed to that of one was much warmer, nearly hot. It was intensely soporific. As the sleepiness from earlier that evening reclaimed their brains, Bakura suddenly spoke up, mind hazy and speech slow.

“Marik… have I ever told you… how irritating you are…?”

“Yes.” Marik replied, after a brief period of thought.

Their breathing synchronized, which was an outcome that made sense considering that Bakura was half a foot away from Marik’s lungs right now, able to detect all the little fluctuations in the oxygen-filtering procedure.

“You’re… lucky you’re… pretty…” Bakura mumbled in time to the rise and fall of Marik’s stomach as his diaphragm contacted and relaxed.

Marik grinned sleepily, ego boosted by the smallest of backhanded compliments. “I told you I was gorgeous, Kitty…”

Bakura’s hair was everywhere, fanning out behind his head, over his shoulders, and into his face. His eyes were shut in relaxation. There was warmth coming from the blankets and from the body he lay beside, melting his icy exterior until it was possible to see the sleepy, arrogant kitty that lay beneath.

Marik shifted slightly to catch a glimpse of his partner’s sleeping face. “Thanks for always helping me with all my evil schemes, Bakura… I guess you are useful to have around the house…”

He closed his eyes again, feeling somehow warmer for having said his bit. He rather hoped Bakura hadn’t been awake to hear it.

Bakura’s mouth, frowning in sleep, softened into a smile. He was purring.

///

Sometime in the afternoon the following day, if one listened intently, a passerby on the street might hear the harmonious chords of a young man’s voice calling out impassionedly:

“Bakura! Bakura! GET THE EVERLOVING FRIG OUT OF MY BED!”

Most people, upon hearing this, would tend to keep walking, not wanting to get mixed up in this sort of personal business.

(END CREDITS?)


End file.
